LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






"FAYETTE." 
The Story of a Waif. 

A COMEDY DRAMA, 
IN FOUR ACTS. 



"FAYETTE." 



The Story of a Waif. 



A COMEDY DRAMA, 



IN FOUR ACTS. 



BY | JAN 26 1iJ85 J 

ESTELLE CLAYTON', 



\ 






> ^ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, 

By ESTELLE CLAYTON, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 



TMP92-003850 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Bernardus, 
Earl of Esmond, . 
Lord Adolphus Vane, 
Due de Loire, 
Duchess de Loire, 
Angelique Duprez, 



Picot, 

Grandmere Virot, 
Julie, 

Jacques, . 

" Fayette," 



A Bohemian. 
An English Nobleman. 
Esmond's Step-son. 
A Patron of Art. 
Mother of the Due. 
Star of the "Bouffes Pari- 
siennes." 

Her Page. 

An old Peasant. 

. A Peasant Girl. 

Gardener on Esmond's Place. 

—and 

A Waif. 



SYNOPSIS. 

Act First. 
The Waif and her Protector . . Temptation. 

Act Second. 
In Paris . " Stage-struck" . A Childish Escapade. 

Act Third. 
Five years after . . In Society . . Eetribution. 

Act Fourth. 
In Love . A Recognition . and . Reconciliation. 



ACT FIRST. 



A wood on the Estate of the Earl of Esmond; Left, 
a woodland stream, steep rocks on either side. Eight, 
a fallen tree and rocks, entire scene very picturesque. 
Small cottage back of stage almost hidden from view. 

{Enter the Earl of Esmond, Adolphus his step-son, 
Due de Loire, and Jacques the Gardener.) 

Due. You have indeed a fine estate, Esmond; 
one of the loveliest in the province, 

Adol. Yes, but don't you think we have seen 
quite enough of it for the present ? 

Earl. You see, Due, that Adolphus has the ad- 
vantage of us. I sent him down here two weeks 
ago to superintend arrangements against my arrival. 

Jac. {aside.) Lord only knows what he has been 
about, then. He left all the arrangements to me. 

5 



Earl. What do you call this spot, Jacques ? 
Jac. This, milord, is called the "Rendezvous." 
Adol. (aside.) "Rendezvous" — Rather appropri- 
ate name, then. 

(Music of violin in distance. Shouts and laughter.) 

Earl. What is all this noise and festivity, Jacques? 

Jac. Bernardus, milord, has just returned 
after an absence of five years. There's a regular 
holiday in the village. Hurrah ! (takes off cap and 
shouts in answer to distant cheers.) Hurrah ! Hur- 
rah ! Pardon, milord, but I couldn't help it ! 

Earl. And who may this Bernardus be ? 

Due. Oh ! a wonderful man; a poet, an artist, 
a Bohemian; oh, a folio could not tell. 

Adol. I imagine one word could. 

Earl. And that is — ? 

Adol. A vagabond. 

Due. Oh, no, you mistake. He has the most 
marvellous talents, the most marvellous influence 
over the people. He is a character— quite a charac- 
ter. 

Earl. I do not like "characters." A "great 
character," says the world, when it means a great 
knave, or a great fool ! 

Due. Bernardus is neither (warmly). 

Adol. A friend of yours, Due ? 

Duo. I should be glad to claim him as such. 
(Turning to Esmond.) Esmond, that man might be 
of wonderful use to the Government. 

Adol. Yes, he's such a rogue. 

Jac. They are coming this way. (Looking off 
excitedly.) 



Adol. Then let us go, by all means. 

Earl. Well, for my part, I shouldn't care to be a 
hero, at the price of having all the old women and 
peasants in the village at my heels. 

Adol. No — I prefer the young ones myself. 

[The party exeunt talking.) 
{Enter Grandmere and JuiiiE across bridge. ) 

Gran. ( Very excitedly calling) Favette ! Favette ! 
now where can that child be ? 

Jul. Fallen into the brook, or in love, that's more 
likely, since the young lord Adolphus from the 
chateau notices her. 

Gran. [Very deaf.) Eh ? Go look for her, Julie, 
Bernardus is coming, and he must not see her the 
way she looked awhile ago, nice care he'd think I 
took of her. Come, Julie, and find her. Oh ! 
here's Bernardus now. 

{Enter Bernardus and Villagers.) 

Ber. Thank you, my friends. Thanks with all 
my heart ; it's worth an absence of five years to 
come back to such a welcome. Well, I must leave 
you now. I'll see you again this afternoon. I'll 
hold a convention right here on this spot at four 
o'clock, then you can bring me all your troubles, 
your broken heads, hearts, and wash-tubs., your dry 
cows, your wet potatoes, your latest grievance about 
your crops, your landlords, and your sweethearts. 
I'll have some cure for you all. Remember, 
four o'clock, and now good-bye for a little while — 
good-bye. 



( Waiving his hand in answer to them, the Villagers 
all retire in high good humor, laughing, shouting, etc.) 

Ber. ( Turning to Grandmere) And now, Grand- 
mere, I'm free to see my little waif. Where is she ? 

Grand. Yes ! Yes ! (shaking with pleasure, but 
not hearing). 

Ber. I say, where is Favette ? 

Jul. (Shouting in her ear) He wants Favette ! 

Grand. Yes, yes, I'll find her. Come, Julie, and 
help me find her. Sweet child, perhaps she's at 
her spinning-wheel. 

Jul. (Sarcastically. ) Of course ! 

Ber. Does she spin much ? 

Grand. She's a good child. She's a good child. 

Jul. (aside.) Good for nothing, don't believe she 
ever spun anything better than a yarn in all her life ! 

Grand. We'll find her; come, Julie, and help me 
find her. (Calling) Favette ! Favette ! 

(Exeunt Grand, awe? Julie.) 

(Favette discovered, crossing on rocks, she is bare- 
foot, shoes in hand, she steps from one stone to an- 
other, shaking her hand after the retreating figures of 
Grand, and Julie.) 

Fav. Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Grandmere, hope 
you'll have a nice time looking for me ! 

Ber. (Turning and seeing child.) Don't fall, 
little girl, careful, now, careful ! 

Fav. Fall; what, me fall ! On these rocks ? Well, 
I think you must be a stranger around here if you 
don't know me better than that, I'm Favette. 

Ber. What ? Favette ! my little waif ! 

8 



Fav. [Looking at him intently.) And you're — 
Oh my, yes, it is ! Oh, Bernardus — ! 

[Rushing to him dropping shoes and everything 
into the water.) 

I'm so glad to see you. 

Ber. Favette ! My little Favette ! Well, noth- 
ing but a chamois or a waif could have crossed 
those stones without falling, now if you were heiress 
to an empire or if the fate of some great nation de- 
pended on you, I suppose you would have gone to 
the bottom instead of your shoes, just through the 
contradictory nature of things in general, and your 
sex in particular. 

Fav. Oh ! I've crossed them lots of times ! 

Ber. Yes ! you have the most inherent pertinacity 
in living of any creature ever born. 

Fav. I have — the — what — ? [perplexed). 

Ber. The most inherent pertinacity — 
. Fav. I haven't, never felt better in all my life. 
(Ber. laughs.) 

Fav. 1 know I look pretty dirty, but there's noth- 
ing the matter with me, truly. Grandmere wanted 
me to get all fixed up before you came, wish I had 
now, and oh [catching sight of her bare feet), what 
will I do for my shoes ? 

Ber. Oh, we'll find another pair. 

Fav. [Hugging him.) I'll have everything nice, 
now you're back, won't I! but what a long time 
you've been away! 

Ber. Oh, mignonne ! I cannot let even a waif 



be a tie, I have enjoyed myself, and so have you, no 
doubt ? 

Fav. Oh, yes, but Adele says its awfully "pro- 
vincial" to enjoy. 

Ber. And who may this little cynic of an Adele 
be? 

Fav. She's in my class at the convent. She puts 
on dreadful airs. Bat I forget you must be tired 
and hungry. 

Ber. Tired ? No, but hungry ? ravenous ! 

( Gesture of mock pain. ) 

Fav. Oh my ! Does it hurt you ? 

Ber. I may recover, especially if you have any- 
thing very good in your larder. 

Fav. Larder ? 

Ber. Yes, anything good to eat. 

Fav. Well, lard isn't good to eat ! 

Ber. Well, what have you for me ? 

Fav. Oh ! we've got (stops) — well, we've got bread, 
and — and — we've got cheese — and — 

Ber. Kisses ? 

Fav. No, but we've got a guinea hen — though I'm 
afraid she's a little tough. She's old enough to be, 
anyhow ' Come to the house then and — (pulling him) . 

Ber. No, cherie, never waste time in-doors that 
you can spend out of doors, you go and get the things 
and we'll have them out here — al fresco. 

Fav. Well, I'll go and get all we've got, but I'm 
afraid we haven't any of that last thing. 

Ber. Which ? 

Fav. Why the fresco. 



10 



Ber. [Laughing) All right, we'll find that out 
here. 

Fav. [Going) Very well, I'll be back in just two 
minutes. 

[Exit over bridge and off.) 

Bee. [Looking after her.) Pretty as a little prin- 
cess and without a mother or a name. Shall T ever 
be reproached that I snatched her from eteruity ? 
How well I remember that day, thirteen years ago. 
Ah me ! Ah me ! how old " Tempus" does fugit. I 
was strolling through the woods playing on my 
violin. Suddenly I heard a laugh of delight as from 
a very young child. I pushed aside the bushes and 
saw what had aroused me. A. little child smiling at 
me, with great, wondering, dark eyes, her hair like 
gold dust on the moss, her small, fair limbs un- 
covered save for the rough red cloak that was folded 
about her, she saw human eyes and remembered hu- 
man wants. "I'm hungry !" she cried, I'm hungry. 
Well, I gave her bread then, and have continued to 
do so ever since. Left 'there to be got rid of cer- 
tainly, by Madame La Marquise at her last scandal, 
or by some poor shirt-stitcher at her last sou ? Ah ! 
here she comes, she must not see my face grave. If 
others frown, I must smile on her, for somehow, 
she is very dear to me. 

[Enter Fav. with bread, fruit, etc.) 

Fav. This is all I can find. That cat must have 
stolen the fowl. I wish there was something bet- 
ter — that cat is such a thief ! 

{Bus. sitting under tree.) 
11 



Bee. Foolish child, there could be nothing better? 
when I add my flask of wine. ( Taking flask from 
pocket and drinking wine. ) 

(Favette gets on to branch of tree.) 

Fav. (Who has been watching intently.) Oh, is that 
what you meant by the "fresco ? " 

Bee. Not exactly, though that is a very good 
name for it, but here are some frescoed candies, bon- 
bons — straight from Paris. Catch ! (throws pack- 
age to Favette in tree). Well, how do you like the 
convent and the sisters ? 

Fav. I hate them (eating). 

Bee. And wherefore ? 

Fav. They hate me. 

Bee. Then I fear you must deserve it. 

Fav. I dare say I do. They are always scolding 
me for wilfulness and pride ; they say to be plain 
and good is better than to be handsome and way- 
ward as I am. 

Bee. Indeed ! so you are conscious of beauty and 
pride and waywardness. A nice trio of qualities ! 
"Know thyself," says the sage ; you certainly obey 
him. 

Fav. But that is not all ; there are two or three 
children there — that Adele is one of them — and they 
are rude, horrid things to me. Grandmere says be- 
cause they are jealous of me ; and they laughed in 
my face when I told them my mother was a fairy, 
and they twit me with having no name, being as 
they say, only a thing that is called " Favette," like 
a cat or a dog ! (Almost crying.) 

12 



Bee. (aside.) So soon ! If children taunt thus, we 
cannot wonder at the great world ! Favette — the 
words that hurt you are from jealous mouths, you 
think. Don't you know that jealousy is and always 
has been a slanderer and a liar ? 

Fav. Yes, but is it true ? I have no name, I am 
not as others are. 

Bee. No name ! " what's in a name?" as the great 
immortal has it ; at best it's only a handle. Now, if the 
pitcher goes safely to the well and brings back cool, 
pure water for thirsty mouths, what matter about 
the handle ! 

Fav. Yes, but if one is a pretty porcelain pitcher, 
it isn't nice to have a broken handle, or none at all, 
like me, and have to go to the well for water as if 
one were only an ugly, old earthen jug. 

Ber. So ! you think yourself pretty porcelain do 
you ? Well, I'll warrant you will never be of so 
much use to others as if you were a homely brown 
jug, and to be proud of your uselessness, that is a 
thing which has not my sympathies. 

Fav. Well, there's no jug that wouldn't change 
and be porcelain if it could. 

Ber. That doesn't say much for their good sense, 
then, if it be true. But I don't think it is true, 
child. There is many a sturdy, honest, sensible, 
brown jug that would rather go to the well twenty 
times a day to get fresh water for the children's 
thirsty throats, the poor chained dogs, the little 
birds in their cages, than be a mere ornament. I 
would rather be the earthenware jug, Favette, but 
you, I suppose, would rather be porcelain and stand 



idle all day long in a velvet lined cabinet amongst 
the other bric-a-brac. 

Fav. I wouldn't break anything. I'd be just as 
careful. 

Bee. Ah yes. I'm afraid you'd be broken first. 

Fav. And is it wrong to be proud ? 

Ber. In what way ? 

Fav. To be impatient at Grandmere's friends be- 
cause they talk such bad patois, and are only igno- 
rant old women. To be full of wrath at Grandmere, 
because she will bake and sweep and scrub, although 
I know it is so good of her to do it ! To long for 
luxury and power and to feel that I would rather 
die than serve. Proud ! Oh ! in so many, many, 
ways, it makes me tired. 

Ber. Favette, you are not a philosopher, nothing 
feminine ever was, I suppose. It is not wrong to be 
proud, if pride be of the right sort. It must' be a 
pride which says, let me not envy, it were mean- 
ness ; let me not covet, it were akin to theft ; I 
need no accident of birth to make me great, because 
I have stainless honor. You should be too proud 
to let an aged woman work when youthful hands 
can help her ; too proud to forget that her hands, 
withered, now, with age and infirmity, helped you 
in your utmost need of helpless infancy. 

Fav. {going to Bernardus.) Oh, indeed, indeed I 
am not ungrateful. If they would only talk like 
that I would always listen. 

{Enter Esmond, Due de Loire, Adol., and 

Jacques. ) 

Earl, {in passing. ) Who is that pretty child ? 

14 



Adol. " Bernardus's waif " they call her. 
Earl. She hasn't the air of a peasant. (Lifts his 
hat in passing. ) 

(Exeunt Esm., Adol., and Due.) 

Fav. Who was he ? 
Ber. Which one, petite ? 
Fav. The one who bowed to me. 
Ber. He is the Earl of Esmond. 
Fav. The Earl ! The great English Earl who has 
just come to the big chateau ? Oh ! 

(Enter Grandmere, with hiitting, across bridge. ) 

Ber. Ah ! Grandmere, we have had quite a 
feast here. Favette and I — 

Grand. Yes, it does my old eyes good to see 
you again. 

Fav. And he bowed to me ! (in a fit of abstrac- 
tion). 

Ber. Thinking of that still, child ? In what 
does the bow of a noble differ from that of a peas- 
ant ? It is chivalry to your sex in both, nothing 
more. 

Fav. (aside.) He said I didn't look like a peasant. 
I knew it ! I knew it ! (Goes for dishes.) 

Grand. Are you going, child ? 

Fav. (Removing dishes.) Yes, I am going to take 
these dishes to the house, and then I will go to the 
well for water. 

Grand. E— h ? 

Fav. (crosses to her.) I am going to take the 
pitcher to the well to fill. 

15 



Grand. Am / ill ? No, dear, I'm very well, very- 
well [knitting). 

Fav. I say I am going to the well. 

Grand. Oh, yes, you're always well. You haven't 
had a day's sickness since you had the measles, and 
that's good ten years ago. 

Fav. You dear old Grandmere. I wish you 
weren't just as deaf as a post. There's no making 
you hear, when you don't want to. 

[Exit over bridge and off. ) 

Grand. You are content with the little angel, 
Bernardus ? 

Ber. As little of an angel as may be, I'm content 
with your care of her, if that's what you mean. 
She thrives as nothing but a waif, whom nobody 
wants, can thrive. 

Grand. E— h ? 

Ber. She thrives like weeds in a garden, vanity 
in woman, and vice in Paris ! 

Grand. Paris. Oh, you don't mean to take her 
to Paris ? [shaking her head) . 

Ber. Certainly not. But she'll get there some 
day, no doubt. 

Grand. Yes, we will look out. God forbid the 
child should ever get to Paris ! I often wonder 
what would become of her, if I died in your absence, 
you wander so far, and are gone so long. 

Ber. Never ask what would become of anything, 
Grandmere, it shows a curiosity highly unphilo- 
soxdIuc. 

Grand. Won't you come and look at the cottage 
Bernardus ? It is so much improved since you had 

16 



it repaired. You are a noble fellow. God will 
bless you. God will bless you. 

Ber. [following.) Don't speak of that, Grandmere, 
I must have my little waif comfortable (aside) if I 
go without tobacco in my pipe. 

(Exeunt over bridge a?id off.) 

(Eater Adolphus, who has been watching.) 

Adol. Gone at last, thought they never would. 
Where's ray little beauty, I wonder, ah ! here she 
comes with a pitcher. 

(Enter Favette, over bridge.) 

What ray little princess playing at Cinderella ? 

Fav. Grandmere is old, and the water is far 
to fetch. 

Adol-. You can do these things and look a 
princess still, — still I would have you where slaves 
should obey your slightest wish. 

Fav. Wouldn't it be lovely ? 

Adol. Well, come then. I leave this province to- 
morrow. 

Fav. Leave it ? 

Adol. Yes, will you be sorry to lose me ? 

Fav. Oh, indeed, I shall miss you very much. 

Adol. Then you love me, darling ? 

Fav. I try to do so, monsieur (innocently). 

Adol. All I dare hope is to make you love me 
some day. If you will only come to Paris with me 
as I want you to. 

Fav. I should dearly love to, but — 

Adol. There is no but. 

17 



Fav. Well, then, I'll ask Bernarclus if I can go. 

Adol. Whew ! ! (aside). 

Fav. What ? {innocently). 

Adol. Nothing, but you mustn't let your guar- 
dian know you. are going to Paris. 

Fav. Oh, he's been so good to me, I couldn't go 
without telling him. 

Adol. If he really cared for you, would he keep 
you here in poverty and obscurity ? No, and if you 
told him he mightn't let you go. (Aside) There's 
not much doubt of that. See, now, what I have 
brought you (bus. of producing chain), let me put it 
around your lovely throat, there, isn't that pretty ? 
You look like a little princess ! Gome with me, 
dearest, you "shall be queen of Paris, I swear it, 
and all men who look once into your beautiful eyes 
will be your slaves forever. 

Fav. Queen ! I'll be the queen and Grandmere 
shall be king. Oh, uo, Grandmere couldn't be a 
king. Bernardns shall be king. 

Adol. I should think you'd rather have me for 
the king. 

(Eider Bernardus, pauses on bridge.) 

Fav. No, yo 1're very nice, but not so big and 
brave and handsome as Bernardus. 

Adol. I'll do anything, promise anything, if you 
will only come. 

Fav. Well then, if you really mean it. 

Adol. Oh ! you little angel, you will come then ? 
(catches her in his arms). 

Ber. (Coming down between them.) Favette 



Adol. The devil ! (aside) . 

Ber. Who is your friend, Favette ? (calming him- 
self). 

Fav. A prince, I think, I don't know his name, 
what is your name ? And he has given me such 
lovely toys, all gold and silver, and he says if I will 
go with him he will show me Paris en fete, and give 
me diamonds and riches, and the life of an empress, 
and may I go, may I ? and you will come too, and 
perhaps he'll take Grandmere. ( To Adol. J May 
Grandmere come, she'd like to see Paris to ? 

Adol. Oh certainly, the whole family, bring them 
all along ! 

Ber. Go to the house, Favette, I will talk to this 
good friend of yours and hear a little of all these 
wonderful things to which he invites us. 

Fav. He has been so kind, and I should like to go 
if I may. 

Ber. Do as I tell you, my child. 

(Exit Favette over bridge and off.) 

So my Lord Adolphus Vane, this is the thief's work 
in which spend your vacation. 

Adol. Since you know my title, you know also 
the respect due to it. 

Ber. Do you know I could kill you where you 
stand, and by Heaven, I have a mind to do it too; 
you coward, you sneak ! Well, what plea do you offer 
in defence of your villany. 

Adol. I am not accustomed to raise pleas for my 
conduct, still less should I do so to an inferior. 

Ber. Your inferior am I ? another word like those 

19 



and I will throw you into that water to sink or swim 
as you may ! (Lays his hand heavily on Adol.'s 
shoulder. ) 

Adol. (freeing himself.) It would do you too much 
honor to resent your outrage myself, I will send my 
grooms to the task. 

Ber. That would be a mistake — for your grooms, 

Adol. I decline any further conversation with 
you. 

Ber. Pshaw ! you will listen as long as I choose. 
You are to leave this place at once on any pretext 
you will, and at your peril attempt to molest that 
child again ! 

Adol. And may I ask the penalty of refusing to 
do anything of the kind ? 

Ber. Disinheritance ! Eugene Esmond is a noble 
gentleman, and an honest man, and rather than en- 
courage your vices he would cut you off without a 
shilling. 

Adol. Indeed ! 

Ber. He bears you no love, my young sir, you 
outrage and offend him at every turn of your worth- 
less life. What mercy do you think he would show 
you if I told him of some of your pastimes, your 
manner of spending the last night of April this very 
year, for instance ? 

Adol. The devil ! 

Ber. Remember you are only his step son by an 
unfortunate marriage, thank Heaven ! the race is 
not to blame for such a traitor. 

Adol. And pray what do you know about the 
" race" what is my father to you ? 

20 



Ber. (Disconcerted a moment.) What he is to all 
the world, what his sou will never be, a gentleman ! 
What mercy do you think he will show you, when I 
tell him you are a traitor, a thief, and a liar ? 

Adol. This is too much ! ( Goes to strike him. ) 

Ber. (Catching his arm. ) I like you better for 
that, now go. I give you until to-morrow, which- 
ever course you pursue will equally serve my pur- 
pose. (Freeing him. ) Go ! 

Adol. (aside.) Insolent scoundrel. It will be 
my turn next. 

(Tableau; they stand looking at each other, then 
Adolphus exits.) 

(Enter Favette over bridge.) 

Fav. Well, may I go with him ? Do you like 
him ? Do answer me, Bernardus ! 

Ber. {Looking at her earnestly.) You wish so much 
to go with this wonderful new friend ? 

Fav. Yes ; to see Paris illuminated ! 

Ber. So it is for the sake of Paris illuminated is 
it ? Tell me, would you go with him to a desert, 
to a dreary sunburnt place ? 

Fav. Oh mon Dieu, no ! 

Ber. Ah, capricious and true to your sex! Change, 
that is all you want. Look here, Favette, you love 
me well enough to do what I ask of you ? 

Fav. Oh yes ! 

Ber. Then Favette, you must never again speak 
to this new friend, and not go to Paris, or any other 
place with him. 

21 



Fav. Not see him any more. Not go to Paris 
[sobbing). Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! 

Bee. And one thing more, he gave you presents 
and jewels, did he not ? 

Fav. Beautiful ornaments. Yes. 

Bee. They must go back to him, every one. Nay, 
child, I would not break your heart by taking away 
your first jewels. I will get you much prettier 
ones, but they must go back. 

Fav. Was it wicked to take them ? 

Bee. No, not for you, but I accept obligations 
from no man, and neither must you. We spoke of 
pride a while ago, the woman who is truly proud, 
will accept the gold and gifts of no man. You 
wouldn't let a stranger kiss your cheek ? Then 
never take from him that for which he might ask, 
were it only in jest, a caress as his payment. 

Fav. Send them back, [throwing down chain,) I 
hate them now ! He wanted to kiss me once, but I 
told him I was no peasant girl. I'll go and get 
them for you, every one ! 

[Exit over bridge and off.) 

Bee. The child is bent on seeing Paris. I will 
take her there myself, a week or two will content 
her. I must now see what amount I can muster to 
replace the trinkets, [bus. of searching in pockets, 
finding only a few coins,) this bauble alone [picking 
up chain from ground ) would cost me more than 
that ! ( Producing manuscript book) I could sell this 
book, it is very valuable, but it is like parting with 
a part of myself. All that is left of my other self. 
22 



Well Dante, my friend, you must be transformed 
into feminine trinkets, there is no other way. 

(Enter Due De L. and Esmond.) 

Due. It's Bernardus, I wish you would speak to 
him, he's really a wonderful fellow. 

Earl. I will leave you then, to converse with your 
friend. 

Ber. Oh, I claim no friendship with Monsieur le 
Due. My business lies with you, Earl Esmond. 

Earl. (Coldly.) I never have business with 
strangers. 

Ber. A stranger am I ? (Sadly.) Well the Due 
de Loire will vouch for me, (bus.) vouch at any rate 
that I did not come out of the galleys. Come Due, 
assure Lord Esmond that the impertinence of my 
being original has not yet led me to the addendum 
of being criminal. 

Due. I was about to assure milord, how invaria- 
bly for good is the marvellous influence you ex. 
ercise over the people. 

Ber. I doubt if he would believe that, still it may 
suffice to make him do what I wish — buy this book 
of me. (Crosses to Esmond.) 

Earl. This man's eccentricity is little short of in- 
sanity (aside). 

Ber. Look at it, monsieur. 

Earl. A genuine antique, in perfect condition. 

Ber. The Alterante's Dante ! 

Due. Why the very book you refused to sell to 
the Cardinal, at Nice, last year ! 

Ber. I did not want the money then. 

23 



Earl. And you do now ? 

Bee. My lord, the only questions you need con- 
cern yourself with are, what it is worth, and whether 
you wish it There are hundreds in Europe who 
will buy it if you do not. 

Earl. What did the Cardinal offer for it. 

Due. He offered — 

Bek. Too much by half. After all what is an 
antique ? Only something grown old and musty 
with age and disuse, and with a book, like a man, the 
lack of pedigree matters nothing, if the pages with- 
in are written fairly. 

Earl. If you will accept the Cardinal's very fair 
price, I would like to give the book a place in my 
library. 

Ber. As you please, monsieur. (Bowing.) 

Earl. That man bows like my equal, surely no 
common vagrant. (Aside, then aloud. J If you will 
come to the chateau my steward will give you the 
money, it is just about luncheon time too, my peo- 
ple will — 

Ber. Pardon me, I do not require your hospital- 
ity, I will remain here, you can send me the money. 

Due. (To Esmond.) You do not understand Ber- 
nardus. He is as proud in his way as you are in 
yours. 

Earl. The strangest man I ever met. The blouse 
of a peasant with the manner of an aristocrat. 

(Exeunt Esm. andDuc over bridge— bow to Favette. ) 

{Enter Favette during preceding.) 

Fav. That handsome gentleman again; were you 
talking to him ? 

24 



Ber. Never mind him, the jewels you were to re- 
turn to the young prince ? 

Fav. {Giving package.) Here they are, every one. 

Ber. Well, now, I have a treat in store for my 
good little girl. If I guess rightly you regret not 
seeing Paris more than anything else ? 

Fav. Yes. 

Ber. Well, how would you like to go there with 
me ? 

Fav. Oh Bernardus ! to go to Paris with you ! 

Beu. Does it please you ? * 

Fav. [throwing her arms around his neck.) Please 
me. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Let me go ! Let me dance ! 
{Skips all around the stage with delight.) 

[Enter Grandmere, Julie, Jacques, and 
Villagers. ) 
Grand. What's the matter with the child ? 
Fav. Paris ! Grandmere ! Paris ! 
Grand. E— h ? 
Fav. I'm going to Paris. 
Grand. Oh Bernardus, is this true ? 
Ber. Yes, I'll take her there for a week or two, 
and then bring her safely back to you. 
Grand. And you are so glad to go ? 
Fav. Well, I sujopose that Adele would call it very 
-" provincial," but I'm so happy, I could — hug and 
kiss everybody ! Laugh Grandmere ! Laugh every- 
body. Oh ! I'm so happy. [Takes Grandmere and 
dances all around the stage with her.) 
[Music.) 
[ Curtain. ) 
End of Act First. 



ACT SECOND. 



Beenaedus' lodgings in Paris — poorly furnished. 
Easel ivith painting, l. Bebnabdus discovered 
painting. Favette sewing a bonnet by chair. 
Old looking-glass in front of her. Practical window 
back. Stove icith soup-pot boiling, also kettle, etc. 

Beb. There ! Almost the finishing touch to the 
Due de Loire's picture. It looks so much like you, 
mignoime, that I'd like to keep it myself. Well, 
I'm going out for a breath of fresh air ; get your 
bonnet and come along. 

Fav. I haven't any bonnet. 

Beb. What ? No bonnet ! 

Fav. It's all ripped to pieces. I wanted to make 
it more stylish, and now I'm afraid I shall never get 
it together again. 

Beb. Then we couldn't go to the theatre to-night. 
By the way, where shall we go ? 

27 



Fav. To the Opera Comique, of course ! 

Ber. Not tired of your goddess yet ? 

Fav. Tired of Angelique Duprez ! O — h ! 

Bee. She fascinates you so ? 

Fav. Doesn't she fascinate every one ? Don't the 
people go perfectly wild when she appears on the 
stage. [Imitating) Applause greets her from every 
side, she bows, smiles, and trips down to the foot- 
lights like a fairy. Then people shower her with 
flowers and bouquets, and even diamonds I have 
heard ! " Brava ! Brava ! Encore ! Encore ! " they 
shout, till the house fairly trembles. 

[Song can be introduced if desired.) 

Bee. Well, cherie— I'm off (kisses her) ; if the Dae 
de Loire comes, ask him to wait. I'll be back soon. 

(Exit Beenaedus.) 

Fav. (alone by chair. ) Now, I wonder if I do look 
like a perfect fright in this bonnet ! Oh, dear ! it's 
a nasty, horrid thing ! ( Throwing it on thejioor and 
going to window.) Now look at that lovely lady just 
getting out of her carriage — what a duck of a bonnet 
that is ! Oh, heavens ! is it ? — no — yes — no — yes, 
it is Madame Angelique. (Throws open window.) 
I should so love to speak to her. (Bus.) Madame ! 
(calls out,) look up ! (draws back). What will she 
think of me ? Oh ! she's coming in this house — up 
the stairs — who can she want to see ? 

(Exits, in a moment returns ivith Angelique, almost 
pulling her into the room.) 

Oh, madame, have you come to see me ? 

28 



Ang. {laughing.) You, child ? Why, who are you ? 

Fav. I'm Favette — I've seen you so often at the 
theatre that I thought — 

Ang. That I had come to see you, now ? Oh ! 
no, I came to see a man who writes songs for me, 
and who lives on the floor above. By-by — [going). 

Fav. Oh ! don't go, please. If you could only stay 
a moment or two — so I could take a long, long look 
at you. I have seen you often at night — but never 
in broad daylight, and you look just as pretty, and 
that bonnet — I never saw anything half so lovely ! 

Ang. As me, or the bonnet ? 

Fav. Both! 

Ang. So you are an admirer of mine, are you ? 

Fav. I think you are an angel ! 

Ang. Here take these {offering bon-bons, holding 
Favette and looking in her face. ) Do you know you 
have a fortune in your face, little one ? How would 
you like to come upon the stage ? 

Fav. Oh, ma dame ! You thiuk I could ? 

Ang. Of course you could. Why not ? With a 
face like yours, you may have no more voice or 
brains than a wooden puppet. You need act no more 
than a stick, and they will run after you. Why nowa- 
days you needn't even be really pretty ! 

Fav. No ? 

Ang. No ! the thing is, to make people think you 
are — that answers every purpose. {Looking around. ) 
You are poor, I suppose ? 

Fav. I suppose so — 

Ang. Of course you are. Well, come to me to- 
morrow at that address {giving card), and I will see 
what I can do for you. 

29 



Fav. And I shall have all those beautiful dresses, 
and all that applause, just like you ? 

Ang. Tour voice shall be cultivated — you have it 
in you, that I can see. And even if you have no 
talent, it will matter nothing. Walk well — dress 
superbly— do strange things — the odder the better — 
break your contracts — go abroad ! Oh ! anything, 
and you'll make your fortune, though you can sing 
no more than a squeaking doll at a fair. 

Fav. Oh ! But I want to be great ! 

Ang. Oh, nonsense ! nonsense ! When a woman 
passes through a crowd, and the people push and 
and elbow each other just for a glimpse at her face, 
or her toilet, and look back at her, and say to one 
another, "There she is," — "Did you see her? — 
that is she ! " has she not greatness ! Ha ! Ha ! 
the best of greatness ! 

Fav. Well, I suppose you must know, I only want 
to be like you. 

Ang. Like me [pauses — shrugs shoulders). Ah, 
yes— it is always out of such as you that women like 
me are made. • 

Fav. Oh ! is it ? then I shall be like you ? 

Ang. Well, yes — if you are bent upon it, you shall 
be just like me ! 

(Bebnaedus — who has entered. ) 

Bee. And if I thought so, I would kill her where 

she stands ! 

Ang. Monsieur, who are you that dare — 

Bee. I am master of my own house, and I tell you 

to leave it. 

30 



Ang. You dare insult me, sir ? 

Ber. I was never rude to a woman before in my 
life — but there is the door. I command you to go. 

Ang. As you please, monsieur [going), but you 
will regret this insolence, believe me you shall. 

(Exit) 

Fav. Was that w.ong too ? 

Bek. My darling ! — not wrong in you — but, great 
heavens — why cannot they let you be ? 

Fav. But you said you would rather kill me than 
let me be like her. Why ? (Goes to stove.) 

Ber. Favette, — that woman broke the heart of 
an honest man who loved her. 

Fav. Broke his heart ? Oh ! how did she do it ? 

Ber. She was the wife of poor Maurice Brentot, 
Ihe fisherman, — you know. 

Fav. She the wife of poor mad Maurice in our 
village ? 

Ber. Yes — she deserted him, and came to Paris— 
and he — he loved her so passionately that her loss 
killed his reason, and made him what he is. Would 
you not rather die in poverty and obscurity than do 
that? 

Fav. Yes — (stirring soup at stove,) but Paris is so 
lovely, and such an exquisite life she must lead. 
How happy she must be. 

Ber. Oh yes — possibly she is happy — without 
soul — without pity— without honor. Exquisite. 

Fav. But she looks so pretty ! (Cooling some soup 
in ladle.) 

Ber. Pshaw ! don't you know what is false when 

31 



you see it ? the red of her lips — the flush of her 
cheek — the tears and the laughter you by turns think 
so divine — they are all lies ! Favette, did you ever 
hear Maurice Brentot's story ? 

Fav. Yes — I think so — taste the soup — um ! it's 
good ! 

Ber. No, child, no ! Well, he married her and 
was so happy in his sea-side cabin, with his wife and 
little girl ; and one day, when the child was only a 
few months old, he went on a short cruise, to be 
gone only one day — and when he returned at night — 
both wife and child were gone — gone ! the cruel 
blow killed his reason and has made him what you 
see. 

Fav. Poor Maurice ! 

Bee. Well ! which are your sympathies with now, 
your goddess Angelique, or the poor sailor, whom 
she wronged and forsook ? 

Fav. She was wrong — cruel and wicked. But 
then he was content with the life — she was not. He 
had his boats and nets — and fishing — 

Bee. So ! discontent is pretext enough for in- 
gratitude {turning to easel — aside), what better than 
the fate of poor Maurice should I get, if I sought 
to win her love ! (Sits at easel and paints. Knock 
at door. Favette opens it. ) 

(Enter Due and Duchess de Loiee.) 

Due. Ah ! Bernardus, I have brought my mother 
to see the picture. Bernardus, my mother ; and 
this mother, is the little girl in whose story you took 
such an interest. (Joins Beenaedus at easel.) 

32 



Duch. Ah, my child, do you know who I am ? 

Fav. Are you a fairy ? 

Duch. Fairy ! No, child. I am the Duchess de 
Loire [laughing); not a fairy, though I may do as 
well, perhaps. Li3t me look at you. Yes, you are 
pretty ! In a year or two, with culture and dress, 
you will be beautiful. 

(Duchess and Favette converse apart. Bernardus 
and Due de Loire. ) 

Ber. Your off.;r is kind, Due, but what good 
would it do to let her go on this visit to your house. 
She would only acquire tastes that could never be 
gratified. She is ready now to rebel at her lot. 

Due. But such a child, Bernardus ; believe me it 
will be impossible to teach her contentment in 
poverty. 

Duch. [to Favette.) How would you like to come 
and live with me ? 

Fav. To live with you ? Oh ! But I cannot, I— 
I dare not — he was so angry with me about the 
Prince and about Angelique. No, I cannot go. 

Ber. {coming down.) Thank you, my waif. You 
have been faithful under trial — which Peter, 
whom people call "Saint," was not. May I ask, 
madame, to what you are tempting her ? 

( To Duchess. ) 

Duch. My son is interested in the child — she is 
beautiful — she is unfortunate. 

Ber. (turning to Duchess.) Unfortunate ! Favette, 
go to your room. (Favette exits. ) Unfortunate ! 
How, madame ? 



Duch. Yes, she occupies a terrible position. 

Ber. And why, madame ? 

Duch. The position of any child, just growing to 
womanhood, must be so, with no friend but a man 
who is not her father, and who does not propose to 
become her husband {gazing at Bernardus steadily 
through glasses). 

Ber. I— I thank you, madame, for showing me a 
danger I had entirely overlooked. What is it you 
would offer her ? 

Duch. I offer her my countenance. If she should 
come beneath my roof a few weeks I could then de- 
termine what could be made of her. 

Ber. Made of her ! You mean that you would 
amuse yourself with her for a while. Unfit her for 
the life which is simplest and best for her — for her 
to be a patronized thing on whom great people can 
vent their ennui and spleen — I perceive nothing, 
in such benefits, madame, deserving of her grati- 
tude, or my acceptance. 

Duch. Whether it be ignorance or ingratitude on 
your part, your insolence is sufficient to frustrate all 
my efforts for the young girl's welfare. ( To Due. ) 
My son, I predicted the outrage I should receive 
from this — gentleman — in gratifying your wishes 
against my own judgment. 

Ber. " Outrage " ! By heaven, madame ! would 
you admit the title of any stranger to claim one of 
your lap dogs ? Favette has as much interest for 
me, as your greyhounds have for you. 

Duch. My son, oblige me by taking me to my 
carriage. 

{Exeunt Duchess and Due.) 



Beb. What has any living thing to do with Fa- 
vette, save myself ! Because I cannot keep her in 
luxury, can I lay no claim to the life I saved ? Be- 
cause I found her nameless and penniless, is that 
any reason why the first stranger who fancies her 
has stronger claim to her existence than I ? 

{Enter Due.) 

Due. You do not understand my mother, Ber- 
nardus. Forgive me, if I speak quite plainly — but 
tell me, what is it you intend to do with this child ? 

Ber. I deny the right of any man to ask that 
question. 

Due. Listen, Bernardus, you will scarcely be en- 
abled to continue much longer your present relation- 
ship with her. 

Ber. And why ? 

Duo. Reflect — you have no parentage to her — can 
you be the sole protector of her life, without sub- 
jecting her to injurious suspicions ? Will the world 
give you credit for your disinterestedness ? 

Ber. Pshaw ! Have I ever lived for the world ? 
That scarecrow and bugbear of millions of fools ! 
We forget it — it can afford to forget us — a Bohemian 
and a foundling. 

Due. You can forget it, but she cannot — for the 
world will not forget her— if she is not your 
daughter, not your wife. 

Ber. You find strange eloquence — are you her 
lover too ? {rising. ) 

Due. You know me better than that. No, Ber- 
nardus, I have no title to dictate to you; but for 



her sake — reflect before you stand between her and 
my mother's protection. 

Bee. De Loire, you are a noble fellow but — but — 
Duo. I will be at home an hour from now. What- 
ever your decision, let me know, and believe me 
my friendship is always yours. 

(Exit.) 

Ber. Marry her, and have the fate of Mad Mau- 
rice ! Take from gratitude what would not be given 
through love ! My God ! for the first time in my 
life, I wish I had not thrown away my birthright. 
( Bows head on easel. ) 

Fav. (Outside.) Bernardus, may I come in ? Ber- 
nardus ! (Enters.) Have you sent away my fairy ? 
Was she a fairy ? she looked so exactly like one, and 
nothing but a fairy could have promised all she did. 

Ber. What a child you are ! Fairy, no, do you 
suppose fairies are real things ? 

Fav. Grandmere does. But tell me, why did you 
send her away ? May I go and see her ? she must 
be very great, and oh ! those diamonds on her 
fingers. 

Ber. Favette ! You will drive me mad — not 
another word of her. 

Fav. Forgive me, Bernardus — I did not mean to 
make you angry (kneeling beside him). Bernardus, 
can you forgive me ? 

Ber. My darling ! I could forgive you anything. 
Ah, Favette, I know not what fate may be in store 
for you, I have tried to teach you right, tried to 
keep you pure and upright, but if with years, you 
should become the guiltiest woman that ever broke 



the heart of man I should have pardon for you. My 
child, can you not even dream what love is ? 

Fav. Oh, indeed, I do love you very, very much. 
{Putting her arms around him.) 

Ber. Tell me, Favette, and think well before you 
reply. Could my love content you, if you wandered 
with me always, were never separated from me. 
Could you be happy, child, with me, sharing my 
life and my love — would you sigh, then, for the 
gifts of the rich, or the triumphs of the stage ? 

Fav. I don't know— I am always happy with you— 
only — it is to be great too, that I want. It is not 
because I am ungrateful, not because I do not love 
you and Grandmere with my whole soul — but I 
know, if you take me back to the cottage and leave 
me there week after week — month after month — 
through the long dreary winter —I should just, die ! 
don't, please, please don't take me back ! {kneeling 
sobbing). 

Ber. [standing.) So it is all over ! (Kisses Fa- 
vette, places her on so/a.) Her heart is set upon 
some far different life than any I can offer her. I 
cannot keep her in peace, and I dare not keep her 
in misery. I must let the bright bird which I 
cherish go from me to the light and sunshine she 
desires. It is bitter — bitter, but she shall be hap- 
py — I will go to the Due de Loire and accept their 
offer. Favette, my child, do not weep, you will kill 
me. Favette, I am going to arrange a plan which 
I think will make you happy, I am going to let you 
(sob). Oh ! I cannot talk to you now— my child, 
my love ! (Catches her in his arms, and puts her 

aside.) Farewell ! 

(Exit.) 



Fav. What could he mean ? He grows so strange — 
and he is so cruel — cruel — although he pretends to 
love me. He sent away my prince, he will not let 
me go to Angelique or on the stage; and now my 
fairy, my lovely old fairy, he won't even let me go 
to her ! Oh dear ! oh dear ! oh dear ! (slams and 
bolts door.) 

(Exits crying.) 

(Enter Page whistling, looks around, and finding 
himself alone. ) 

"What nobody here ! Well, Madame Angelique 
told me to wait, I must obey orders. ( Whistles pre- 
lude, then sings.) 

Page's Song. 

I'm the Serio-Comique 

Of the Theatre Olympique, 
And I used to sing and dance upon the stage; 

But my antics were so queer, 

So very, very queer, 
The manager discharged me in a rage. 

(Grotesque dance.) 

Then Madame Angelique, 

Star of the Olympique, 
Thinking me so very clever, for my age; 

Said, if I would be good, 

Oh, so very, very good, 
She'd take me for her own little Page. 

(Dance.) 

38 



Now I only sing and dance, 

Her pleasure to enhance, 
And I hardly ev — [breaks off) 
I mean I very seldom go upon the stage; 

But for fun upon the sly 

I let no chance go by — 
For I'm up to all the dodges of the age. 

(Sees Favette, who enters, and calls :) 

Hist ! mademoiselle ! Are you Mile. Favette ? 

Fav. Who are you ? 

Page. I was formerly an artist. Now a simple 
menial. 

Fav. What do you want ? 

Page. My mistress, Madame Angelique, sent me 
to say that she wishes to see you again (giving card). 

Fav. Wishes to see me ! Where is she ? 

Page. Tn her carriage at the corner, mademoiselle. 

Fav. Oh I cannot — I dare not, he has forbidden 
me. 

Page (coaxingly.) It is only to speak to you. 
She is waiting. 

Fav. There can't be much harm in that — and he 
has been cruel to me. Yes — I will go (throwing 
hood over her head). Just to speak to her, you 

know. Come, let us go. 

(Exit ) 

Page (Itughing.) This is madame's little game, 
it's a trick, an abduction I call it : She won't get 
back as easily as she thinks ! 

(Exit Picot, whistling.) 

(Quick Curtain.) End of Scene First. 



SCENE SECOND. 

Boudoir in the House of Angelique, very elegant. 

(Angelique and Lord Adolphus discovered laughing 
heartily. ) 

Adol. [behind sofa.) Where is she ? 

Ang. (on sofa.) Hush, Dolly, don't make such a 
noise, she's in that room dressing (pointing). 

Adol. Let ine go and see her (going). 

Ang. You just stay where you are. 

Adol. Why? 

Ang. It would spoil everything if she saw you 
now. 

Adol. I suppose you must have your own way. 
Well, you think she loves me ? (Seating himself 
beside Angelique. ) 

Ang. Not the least bit in the world. 

Adol. (making wry face.) No ? 

Ang. No, and if she knew you were here, nothing 
could persuade her to remain. I've had trouble 
enough with her. 

Adol. You're clever, Angelique, you've managed 
this affair beautifully. You did not meet that boor 
of a Bernardus, I hope ? 

Ang. Yes. 

Adol. You did ! What did he say to you ? 

Ang. He ordered me from the house (airily, im- 
itating, rising), Madame, this is my house, there is 
the door — go ! 

Adol. And you ? 

40 



Ang. Oh yes — I went— I didn't stop to argne the 
point with him. Do you know, I hate that man — 
such an air ! and oh ! such a look ! Now, if looks 
could kill, I should have been annihilated. 

Adol. But fortunately they cannot. Well, tell 
me all about it. 

Ang. Well, it was too funny. She was looking 
out of the window — I pretended not to see her. 
When she saw me, I thought the little fool would 
go wild. I quietly went in the house — she met me 
on the stairs — and, almost pulling me into the room, 
asked me if I had come to see her — I pretended not 
to know who she was — ha ! ha ! and guess what I 
said? 

Adol. Something clever, of course. 

Ang. I said I had come to see a man on the next 
floor, and who wrote songs for me {laughing). 

Adol. You are clever. Who but you would have 
thought of such an ingenious ruse ? {Both laugh- 
ing. Knock, at door.) 

Ang. Hush, here she is — 

( Enter Favette, dances gayly into room singing. ) 

Fav. There, I'm all ready— Don't I look pretty ? 
(Stops short and points to Adolphus) O — h ! 
Adol. My little truant ! I see you at last ! 
Fav. I must not speak to you. 

{Exit Angelique. ) 

Adol. Don't be cruel — 

Fav. Bernardus told me I must never notice you 
again. 

Adol. You will break my heart. See how you 
have treated me. 

41 



Fav. Well, I know — but I couldn't help it. 

Adol. Oh, my little angel. I have missed you so 
much (tries to embrace her). 

Fav. Don't ! Stop ! 

Adol. Well, I won't; I am never going to let yon 
go from me again. 

Fav. What do you mean ? 

Adol. I mean that I love you — and that you are- 
mine. 

Fav. Let me go, or I'll call Madame Angelique, 

Adol. Don't you love me ? (Kisses her.) 

Fav. Just for that — I hate you. (Breaks away. 
Tries door — it is locked.) Madame ! Madame An- 
gelique ! Oh, madame. (Scuffle outside.) Help! 
help ! 

Ber. (oidside.) Hands off, man — I tell you I will 
enter. 

(Enter Bernardus, followed by Angelique, Servants, 

and Guests.) 

Ber. Favette, my child ! I have found you at 
last. 

Ang. (standing between Favette and Bernardus.) 
Monsieur, how do you dare intrude into my house. 

Ber I came for that child. 

Ang. She shall not go with you. Be still, child. 
Now, sir ; oblige m e by leaving this house, of which 
I am the mistress. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Ber. Decidedly, madame, when she accompanies 
me. 

Fav. (to Angelique, who is holding her.) You hurt 



Ang. Monsieur, there is the door— I command 
you to go ! 

Fav. Why do you laugh ? 

Ang. I have turned the tables on him, that is all ! 
He ordered me from his house — he shall now be turned 
from mine. 

Fav. Oh ! Now I see how wicked you are ! you 
laugh because you have made me disobey him. It 
is Satan who laughs just so, when people are wicked. 
( To Bernabdus. ) I never meant to grieve you, I 
only meant to grow great and be a pleasure and a 
glory to you instead of a burden — as she said I 
was— and I loved her so — that woman — I thought 
she was an angel ! 

Ang. Love me still. You will regret it, if you 
leave me. Will you go back to poverty with that 
man, when I tell you that I will give everything 
you desire. Come now, choose between us. 

Fav. I prefer him a thousand times {rushes to 



Bee. My child ! [to Favette. Turning to Ange- 
lique.) One cannot kill such things as you — you 
murder body and soul— yet we must let you go free, 
because you are " woman" — because you can crouch 
and shelter beneath the shield of the sex you out- 
rage ! Were I to set my heel upon your throat, I 
should do no more guilt than if I strangled the life 
from an adder. The tigress and the leopardess are 
tender beside you. Brutes though they be they do 
not drive the young of their own kind down to 
slaughter and destruction ! 

Ang. Separate them ! Turn that man from my 
house, I say ! Do you hear ? 



Ber. And I say, let them try it if they dare ! 
Bah ! Cowards that you are. These are the only 
friends a woman like you can have. In prosperity 
they are with you, but in adversity, not a single 
hand is raised in your defence ! 

Adol. Insolent scoundrel — take that (draws pis- 
tol : Favette knocks it from his hand to floor, then 
picks it up and aims it at Adolphus) . 

Fav. It is you who are the insolent scoundrel and 
if you move one step you will " take that" yourself. 
So there now ! 

( Tableau — Bernardus and Favette going. Adol- 
phus held back by Guests.) 

( Curtain. ) 

End of Act Second. 

A lapse of five years takes place between this act a?id 
the one following. 



ACT THIRD. 



Drawing-room in Eakl of Esmond's house. Large 
windows opening back. Julie and Jacques dis- 
covered. 

Jac. [giving flowers.) These flowers are to dec- 
orate this room, and these are for Mile, de Loire. 
Lord Esmond picked them for her with his own 
hands. 

Jul. He don't do that for all the ladies visiting 
here. 

Jac. I should think not. And Julie, here is a 
little rose for yourself. 

Jul. Ah ! thanks, awfully (pins it in her dress). 

Jac. I picked that for you. 

Jul. So I supposed. Now I'll take these to 
Mam'selle de Loire. 

Jac. Not yet — don't go — stay a little while with 



Jul. What for ? 

Jac. To — to talk a little {long pause). 

Jul. Well — I thought you wanted to talk — I'm 
listening ! 

Jac. That's a pretty rose [shyly). 

Jul. I'm off, if that's all you want to say. 

Jac. No — I — want to smell it. 

Jul. You just gave it to me — you know how it 
smells . 

Jac. I don't— I forget. 

Jul. Oh — I'll pay him for that fib. Well, if you 
really want to smell it, here it is (as if about to give 
it to him). 

Jac. Oh, keep it there. 

Jul. Well then, I will (takes pin from apron and 
sticks it through rose). You don't have to put your 
arm around my waist. 

Jac. Yes, it smells better so. Oh — ! (jumping 
away). 

Jul. (innocently.) What's the matter ? 

Jac. Oh ! my nose — my nose ! 

Jul. What's the matter with your nose ? 

Jac. The rose — the rose ! 

Jul. (laughing.) " No rose without a thorn," you 
know. What did you expect a kissing me " under 
the rose"? 

Jac. Oh ! you wicked little Satan. If somebody 
wasn't coming I'd pay you well for this— never 
mind, it'll keep ! 

(Exit Jacques.) 

Jul. (calling after him.) All right, keep it as 
long as you like. 



Enter Bernardus. 

Jul. Oh ! Bernardus [curtseys). Pardon me, 
monsieur. 

Ber. Why, Julie, should I " pardon" you ? 

Jul. For calling you Bernardus. 

Ber. Well, I haven't changed my name that I 
know of. 

Jul. Ah ! but it is different now. You are a great 
artist, and visit the Earl of Esmond. 

Ber. Merely on business. Don't be absurd, Julie, 
and how is Jacques ? 

Jul. He is still on the place as gardener — that 
was him just going out. 

Ber. Why, what had you done to him ? 

Jul. Oh nothing, he discovered this rose had a 
thorn, that's all. 

Ber. Yes, I rather suspected that you were the 
thorn in his side. 

Jul. It wasn't his side, monsieur, it was his 
nose— but I must take these flowers to the Duchess 
and Mile, de Loire. ♦ 

Ber. Mile, de Loire ! Is she here ? 

Jul. Yes, she and her mother are guests of the 
Earl of Esmond. 

Ber. (aside. ) So Favette is here — in this house. 
How I should like to see her ! 

Jul. They do say — 

Ber. Say what ? 

Jul. Well, they say that — have you ever seen 
Mile, de Loire ? 

Ber. Yes, I have seen her — why ? 

Jul. Oh — Mon Dieu, she is so beautiful. 

47 



Ber. Yes — yes — but can't you tell me what they 
say? 

Jul. Well, it may be nonsense, but they do say 
that she and Milord Esmond will soon be married. 

Ber. Married ! To him ! 

Jul. Yes — why not ! It is true he is a little 
older than she is, but he is still young — and she — 
oh, she is beautiful. And of the bluest of blue blood — 
oh, what a splendid couple they make. You should 
see them when they ride together. 

Ber. And his step-son, the young Lord Adolphus 
Vane — is he here ? Does he know of his father's 
intention to marry ? 

Jul. Just arrived to-day, and /think that's just 
what brought him home — he's afraid his father will 
marry, and then he'd no longer be heir to the 
estate. 

Ber. The villain ! 

Jul. Monsieur — will you be angry if I ask you 
something ? 

Ber. I am not likely to be — try. 

Jul. Well— did you ever see in Mile, de Loire a 
look of that poor little Favette, whom you told us 
died in Paris — 

Ber. There is a sort of resemblance — yes. 

Jul. I knew it — of course there is an enormous 
difference. Jacques laughed at me when I spoke 
of the likeness. 

Ber. Jacques is the wiser of the two. A great 
lady would not be pleased to be likened to a found- 
ling. Let no one else hear you speak of it, Julie. 

Jul. No, monsieur. Ah ! here is the Earl, I must 

48 



go deliver his flowers to 'Mile, de Loire {courtesies 
and exits) . 

[Enter Esmond.) 

Earl. Ah, Bernardus. 

Ber. You sent for me ? 

Earl. Yes, hearing of your wonderful success at 
the Academy — I wanted you to paint a picture for 
me. 

Ber. Of yourself ? 

Earl. No, of a lady : Mile, de Loire. 

Ber. Impossible — I cannot. 

Earl. Cannot ? 

Ber. I mean- -I could never do her justice. 

Earl. You know her then ? 

Ber. I have seen her. 

[Enter Julie. ) 

Jul. Pardon me, monsieur, but Mile, de Loire's 
compliments and she will be down directly. 

Earl. Very well. 

Jul. The message was for Monsieur Bernardus, 
my lord. 

Earl. For Mons. Bernardus. Are you not mis- 
taken ? 

Jul. No, my lord; when I told mademoiselle, 
Monsieur Bernardus was here, she bade me come 
at once and say she would like to see him. 

{Exit Julie. ) 

Earl. {Looking fixedly at Bernarlus. ) Then you 
do know Mile, de Loire ? Since she wishes to see 
you, we will talk of our affair later. Au revoir, 

49 



monsieur (going). So they have met before, and 
he wished to conceal it, why ! 

(Exits slowly as Favette enters.) 
(They bow in passing — Favette goes to Bernardus.) 

Fav. Oh ! I am so glad to see you ! 

Ber. You said you wished to see me ? 

Fav. You never come near me, unless I do. 

Ber. Why don't I ? You know too well that if 
you ever thought of me. 

Fav. But I do think of you often . Can you deem 
me so dead to all feeling — you who were all the 
world to me once. 

Ber. There is no need to remember that. Others 
have done much greater things for you since. You 
are now the legally adopted daughter of the Duchess 
de Loire. You have all your longed for advantages 
of wealth and station. You have not needed me. 
Have you not been happy all this time ? 

Fav. It has been like Paradise ! The Duchess 
has been so good to me — everybody has been so 
good, I have but to wish a thing and it is done. 

Ber. How changed you are ! 

Fav. Changed indeed in mind and manner, but 
not in heart, and that is why I now turn to my 
earliest and best friend for counsel and advice. 
When Julie told me you were here, I felt that I 
must see you. 

Ber. How can I advise you ? 

Fav. Well, I will tell you; the Earl of Esmond has 
asked my hand in marriage. Mamma is bent on 
the match. 

50 



Ber. And you— do you love him ? 

Fav. Why, of course — you know how I always 
admired him, even when I was a child — here in this 
very village. Does it not seem strange how things 
have turned out ? You remember how I was always 
thinking and talking of him ; it was my childish 
dream to meet him as an equal in the great world, 
and now — now that my dream is realized it seems 
as if I could not marry him with this awful shadow 
of falsehood between us — for it is nothing else. 
Mamma has forbidden me to tell him of myself — 
jou know how particular she was that nothing 
should be knowu about my childhood — she has led 
every one to believe that I am of noble birth — some 
relative of her own before she adopted me. Oh, 
JBernardus ! what shall I do ! How can I go to the 
man who loves me a living lie ! 

Ber. Don't — don't for Heaven's sake ask my ad- 
vice on this subject. 

Fav. Why ? 

Ber. Can you ask why ! Don't you know — will 
you ever know how I — [breaks off). Favette, your 
own heart must be your only counsellor ; only re- 
member this — if any sorrow should ever touch you, 
come to me ; then, though you forget me in your 
joys, and remember enough of your happy innocent 
childhood, to know there is one who will cherish 
and protect you against all the world. I must leave 
you now — your own heart will teach you what is 
right, and you will follow it I am sure. 

Fav. But when shall I see you again ? 

Ber. Possibly, never, Favette, unless you have 

51 



serious need of me. Our paths in life lie far apart. 
Remember I do not belong to your great world. 

Fav. But they would receive you with open arms. 
I hear your name continually. 

Bee. It is a world whose follies I despise and 
whose portals I shall never enter. And now my 
child I must say Adieu; should you ever need me I 
will come to you, but that is not likely now. Good- 
bye, dear; one last kiss upon your brow, it will not 
leave it less pure for him, good-bye (kisses her brow 

tenderly). 

(Exit Bernardus.) 

Fav. [bus,) Why, I believe I am crying. 

(Enter Esmond.) 

Earl. Bernardus gone ? 

Fav. Yes. 

Earl. Of what are you thinking ? 

Fav. Of him. 

Earl. Candid at all events ; (aloud) a strange 
character this man. 

Fav. A noble one. 

Earl. I would like to know what first made him 
the Bohemian and eccentric that he is. Those men 
who censure the world and laugh at the whole of 
mankind, have generally been shown a jail by the 
one, and the door by the other. 

Fav. Lord Esmond, look in the face of that man 
you condemn, and say, you who pride yourself on 
your knuwledge of men, whether any single thing of 
crime or dishonor could go with the features you 
see — the dauntless regard that meets your own. 



Earl. This person is fortunate in your interest 
for him. 

Fav. {controlling herself.) There, don't let us 
■quarrel ; I have something important to say to 
you — can you hear it now ? 

Earl. Certainly. Why, my darling, how serious 
jou are. 

Fav. Wait, before you touch me, wait until you 
hear all I have to tell you — you love me and trust 
me, do you not ? 

Earl. Trust you— why I believe in your honor 
and truth with all my soul; if I did not, [ could not 
love you as I do. 

Fav. No ? 

Earl. I love you because I trust you. With me 
ihere could be no love without perfect confidence. 

( Enter Adolphus on arm of Servant. ) 

Earl. Ah, here is my step-son, Adolphus ; you 
have not met him yet, he has just returned this 
morning, and with a badly sprained ankle. (Help- 
ing Adolphus.) Mademoiselle, allow me to present 
my step-son, Lord Adolphus Vane. Adolphus, this 
is Mile, de Loire, my affianced wife. {They bow to 
■each other.) 

Fav. {aside. ) My prince ! 

Adol. (aside.) She Mile, de Loire ! The devil ! 

Enter Servant. 
.Serv. Dinner is served, my lord. 

(Exit.) 



53 



(Enter Duchess de Loire and Due.) 

Duch. Ah ! then I am just in time. 

Earl. Yes. Your grace, allow me to present my 
prodigal son. Returned to be nursed for his> 
sprained ankle. Adolphus, this is the Duchess de 
Loire. 

Adol. {trying to rise, ) Excuse my rising, madam. 

Due. (Coming down and shaking hands with Adol- 
phus. ) Sorry to hear of your accident, Adolphus. 

Adol. Ah, thanks — yes, its devilish annoying. 
(Aside to him.) So this is the beautiful Mile, de 
Loire— your mother's daughter by adoption. 

Due. Yes, is she not lovely ! (Then aside.) Is it 
possible he recognizes her ? 

Adol. Her face is strangely familiar to me. 

Due. Ah, no doubt, one's face is public property 
nowadays; those who escape the wax works are 
not let off so easily by the photographers. 

Earl. Now, ladies, if you are ready for dinner 
we will go ii). 

Duch. Quite ready, my lord. 

Earl. Will you take my arm, Duchess ? De 
Loire, you take in your sister. 

Eav. Will Lord Adolphus not join us ? 

Adol. No, thank you, Mile, de Loire, I dined 
some time ago. I'll sit here and think until you ail 
return. 

Earl. That will be a novelty for you. 

Due. (aside.) He never thinks of anything ex- 
cept pleasure or mischief — which is it now, I wonder L 

(Exit Duchess and Esmond. Favette and 
Due follow.) 



Adol. (alone. ) So this is the girl the de Loires 
have picked up and palmed off on society as a 
"relative." Adopted a "distant connection" — 
"daughter of an old friend"— so the story goes; 
and my father intends to marry her! a bastard pick- 
ed up by the road-side ! I wonder what he will say 
to that when I tell him. Yet, if he loves her, will 
that be sufficient to break off the marriage ? No, 
let me think— Ah ! I have it ! If it wasn't for the 
cursed foot I'd go over and see Angelique, she 
would help me. Yes — but why not send for her ? 
It would be a bold stroke; they are all at dinner, 
and by the time they return — yes, yes (excitedly sit- 
ting down to table and writing.) I'll do it. Ange- 
lique will enjoy it. I'll have her here to confront 
this girl. It will be a " coup d'etat" worthy of us 
both, but how to send the note over (sees Jacques 
passing window). Here Jacques (no answer), Jac- 
ques, I say; here, you scoundrel, come in; what are 
you doing out there ? 

(Enter Jacques sheepishly.) 

Adol. Well ! 

Jac. I was only peeping in the window, ray lord, 
to see if I could see Julie, your lordship. 

Adol. Julie ? 

Jac. Yes, my lord, we had a bit of a quarrel. 

Adol. There, cut that— I won't report your prowl- 
ing about the house where you've no business to be, 
if you will deliver a message for me quickly, safely, 
and just as I tell you. 

Jac. Thank you, my lord, indeed I wil!. 

55 



Adol. Well, I want you to take that note to 
Madame Duprez's. 

Jac. You surely don't mean Angelique Duprez, 
the dancer ? 

Adol. The same — you know her house ? 

Jac. The little villa just opposite— but, my lord— 

Adol. There, cut that— deliver that note. If she 
is in, Madame Angelique will probably return with 
you. Show her into this room where I shall be 
waiting for her 

Jac. Oh, my lord. 

Adol. That will do. 

Jac. Y — s, my lord (hesitating). 

Adol. Then go. 

Jac. Yes, my lord. (Aside going) There'll be the 
very devil to pay if his father sees the (lifting his 
leg in pantomime of ballet dance). 

Adol. (turning just in time to see him.) Jacques! 

Jac. Yes, my lord — I'm off ! 

(Exit Jac. ) 

Adol My father thinks he'll marry, does he ? 
Nice idea, by jove ! What would become of me and 
my debts then, I wonder ? 'Oh, no, we'll settle all 
that. Angelique is clever — she will help me ruin 
this dainty upstart when I tell her this Mile, de 
Loire is the child Bernardus carried off from her in 
such a high-handed manner. She's only been wait- 
ing to get even with him. 

(Enter Angelique hurriedly.) 

Ang. You sent for me V 

Adol. Yes; you see I could not come to you; I 



sprained my ankle this morning getting out of the 
train. I have serious business on hand, Angelique. 

Ang. It must be so indeed, for you to send for 
me in this manner; I had guests at the house, but 
your note was so imperative, I dared not disregard 
it. (Goes to window.) 

Adol. What's the matter ? 

Ang. It looks like a storm. 

Adol. Nonsense, sit down. You know the 
daughter of the Duchess de Loire ? 

Ang. By sight. 

Adol. My good Angelique — you can only know 
Duchesses by sight. You seem to hate her by that 
look ! 

Ang. I do. 

Adol. Why? 

Ang. Oh ! I hate them all. Why ? Pooh ! how 
can I tell ? I hate them as cats hate dogs. The 
dog goes grandly past as if there were no cats in 
existence. Well, the cat spits and scratches just to 
show it is not safe to ignore her. 

Adol. You are very candid. 

Ang. I always am, besides I do not mind being a 
cat at all — it is generally well with the cats. They 
get the cream and the butter, the warm fire and the 
soft cushions, while your dog, if it is legalized, is 
taxed and muzzled, and even if it have a place in 
the laws, it has seldom a bone in its platter. As for 
grand dames. Pshaw ! they are only copies of us; 
they imitate our costumes, our manners, our slang 
even; and now and then they give us a look — the 
dogs look at the cat, mind you— and then, one could 



kill them. As for this " de Loire" girl, I have 
hated her ever since she was iirst pointed out to 
me, she looks so happy, so arrogantly well content. 

Adol. You have studied this young patrician 
well, it would seem. Whom does she resemble ? 

Ang. I don't know. 

Adol. Think twice.. (Angelique shakes her head. ) 
No ! Think of a stray bird that once escaped you 
and me. 

Ang. What, that child, Favette ? 

Adol. Yes, that child, Favette. 

Ang. Impossible ! this woman is an aristocrat by 
birth. 

Adol. By adoption only. 

Ang. That beggar child, picked up in the high- 
way by a Bohemian, turned grand lady ? Ridicu- 
lous ! A little wretch who should have gone to the 
foundling asylum, been made a seamstress, a fruit- 
seller, or a ballet girl, at best — it is ridiculous — in- 
credible — intolerable ! 

Adol. But I tell you it is true. 

Ang. You told me once that she was dead. 

Adol. It was the popular belief around the vil- 
lage. 

Ang. Then you believe that when she fled from 
us and disappeared from her garret she went in all 
honor to those de Loires. 

Adol. I do not believe — I know. 

Ang. How I hate her ! 

Adol. Well, if you have anything against her I 
will tell you how you can repay it. 

Ang. How ? She has her wealth and honors by 



law you say. How can one touch her — how despoil 
her — how drag her down ? 

Adol. You can fling her story to the hounds of 
slander. 

Ang. If we leave her her riches — we leave her a 
herd of lovers — a crowd of friends. Does the world 
ever forsake what can feast it ? 

Adol. That is true — but listen — she loves at last 
and is about to marry. One breath of disgrace cast 
on her, and the man she loves will let her die rather 
than trust her with his honor. 

Ang. Ah ! And this man is — 

Adol. My step-father. 

Ang. [laughing softly.) Oh! I see now. How 
strange things are sometimes. Yet, if he loves her, 
will he care ? Men are such fools. 

Adol. For the story of her birth, no, perhaps 
not. But for her disgrace— he will leave her for- 
ever. 

Ang. Her disgrace ? What is it ? 

Adol. You can arrange that, Angelique. You 
understand ? 

Ang. I can ? Only tell me how {giving hand). 

Adol. Forgive me, Angelique — but can we not 
say — that — she was once — beneath your roof ? 

Ang. I see ! [laughing). Yes, it will serve— it will 
serve [exultingly). She lies in the hollow of our 
hands, to do with as we please ! [Sits at table lost in 
thought. ) 

Adol. Well, Angelique ? 

Ang. I was only thinking. 

Adol. What? 

59 



Ang. She is very great, and your father loves her, 
you say ?' 

Adol. Yes— well ? 

Ang. Suppose we were mistaken, after all ? 

Adol. But I am not mistaken. Listen, and I 
will tell you all I know of her. About four years 
ago I met an old woman, miserably poor and ill,' 
formerally an opera singer— but her voice had given 
way years before. You know I never valued money, 
so I helped her occasionally (look from Angelique). 
Yes, it amused me. Well, she became very ill — 
was dying in fact — and sent for me to thank me or 
some nonsense like that; when I arrived, she was 
talking to a man and asked me to remain outside — 
I did so. 

Ang. Exemplary obedience on your part. 

Adol. Yes, was it not ? Well, the man sitting 
by her bedside was Bernardus. 

Ang. What ! Our friend, the Bohemian ? 

Adol. The same. That aroused my curiosity of 
course, under the circumstances, I could not neg- 
lect to — overhear what they had to say. 

Ang. This is very interesting — but how does it 
concern us. 

Adol. You will see. The old chorus singer was 
telling him of a child that had been left in her care. 

Ang. A child ! go on. 

Adol. Oh, you are interested at last. This woman 
said that the mother of the child was going to Paris 
and had left the child in her care; but sending noth- 
ing for its support, and the woman being unable 
to keep it, she left it in the bushes by the road- side. 



Ang. And — what became of the child ? 

Adol. Well, it seems that this was the very child 
Bernardus had found. 

Ang. And the woman's name (excitedly). What 
was her name ? 

Adol. Didn't I tell you ? Why, Gerante — 

Ang. What ! Rose Gerante [rising). 

Adol. Yes. Rose Gerante. 

Ang. Great God ! Is this my vengeance ! Oh, 
no, no. You do not mean it ! It is a lie. The 
child that was left with Rose Gerante is not this 
child — it is a wretched, senseless, baseless lie ! 

Adol. It is no lie ! I tell you Rose Gerante swore 
to Bernardus that the child which was left in her 
care, was the same child he had found. She did 
everything to prove it. She described the spot 
where she had left it. Bernardus agreed it was the 
same spot in which he had found the child. She 
described the garment it wore. A coarse red wool- 
en shawl. Bernardus said he had it yet. 

Ang. Ah ! Then it is true ! She, she, that girl 
who loathes me, is the child I bore, and held to 
sleep in my bosom; that child who thought me an 
angel, and whom I would have led down to destruc- 
tion, was mine — mine — and I the temptress of my 
own daughter's soul. 

Adol. Great Heaven ! Angelique, what are you 
saying ? How do you know ? 

Ang. Because / am the wretched woman who de- 
serted her husband and her home — who left her 
innocent child — because Rose Gerante is the woman 
with whom I left Ik r. 

61 



Adol. This will be a fuller and more complete 
revenge than even I dreamed of (aside). 

Ang. And to think if you had not told me this, I 
would have crowued all my sins by her ruin now. 

Adol. What do you mean ? 

Ang. We must leave her be — leave her to her 
honors and glories — we cannot touch her now — we 
cannot. 

Adol. An afterthought of remorse from you ? 

Ang. Remorse ! all the water in the ocean can 
never, never, wash mine away. Poor, poor 
Maurice — that sea cabin so dark and narrow, I can 
smell its sea salt yet. I can hear the eternal beat- 
ing of the waves upon the rocks. Ah ! Heaven ! 
I grew so weary of them all. And my child, so 
proud and pure — she is mine — yet scorns me — it is 
terrible that — but just. She must never know what 
I (in sudden fear), what we know. Adolphus, you 
will keep this secret. 

Adol. Indeed, Angelique, I. fear I cannot ! 

Ang. Oh ! you could not be so cruel as to refuse 
me. Oh ! Adolphus ! don't turn away — we owe her 
that, you and I — how we strove to net her and chain 
her and drag her down to our depths, and she was 
my child all the while. You will keep this secret, 
Adolphus; I have many of yours in my keeping. 

Adol. (turning to her coolly.) Angelique Duprez, 
if you have your daughter's honor to keep, remem- 
ber I have my father's honor to save. 

Ang. But think — think Adolphus — my own — own 
child — my own flesh and blood, and I her mother 
to drag her down. Oh ! on my knees I beg and 

62 



implore you not to do this vile wicked deed. Ob 
have mercy — have mercy — promise me {sobbing). 

Adol. I tell you, madame, this scene is useless — 
my mind is distinctly made up. 

Ang. AU « (shrieking). Monster! Devil that you 
are, how could I hope for one thought of mercy 
from you. Ah ! My God ! my heart ( gasping for 
breath). I believe I am dying. 

Adol. ( going to her. ) Angelique ! Angelique, 
speak to me, wake up ! wake up ! (places her on 
sofa). 

Ang. Dying — dying — with all my sins, my wicked 
life upon my head. Oh my husband — poor, poor 
Maurice ! my child — child of such a mother ! Oh 
Heaven forgive — forgive — Ah! (puts handkerchief 
to her lips, it is stained with blood, falls back and dies). 

Adol. Angelique. Ah, she's dead— dead. 

(Enter Favette, Esmond, Due and Duchess de 

LOIEE.) 

Earl. What is the matter, Adolphus ? 

FAv. What has happened, oh the poor lady has 
fainted. 

Duch. Why who is she ? (looking at Angelique 
through glasses). 

Eabl. (Looking at Angelique and recognizing her.) 
Send for Dr. Ducarte at once (to Servant). What ! 
Angelique Duprez ! That woman in my house. 
What does this mean ! 

Adol. What more natural ! She came to see her 
daughter — unfortunately she is dead (bus.). 

Omnes. Dead ! 



Adol. Yes, dead, and cannot tell the story she 
came to tell — but I will tell it for her— she is the 
mother of that woman [pointing to Favette). 

Fav. My mother ? 

Adol. Yes. This woman who is trying to pass 
herself off as a great lady, is her daughter. 

Eakl. Do jou dare insult the lady who is to be- 
come my wife. 

Adol. The truth cannot be an insult, although it 
may not always be pleasant to hear ! 

Fav. Oh, mother — what is he saying ? 

Adol. I can prove every word I have spoken. 

Fav. He hates me — it is some wretched plot 
against me. 

Adol. And why do I hate you ? Tell the man 
you are about to marry of your past. 

Fav. My past ! 

Eabl. What do you mean ? 

Adol. Ask her if she did not accept my attentions 
when she was a foundling in this very village, if 
she did not go to the house of Augelique Duprez to 
meet me — if I did not give her diamonds and 
jewels. It after all this she did not deceive me as 
she did her other lover, that man Bernardus. 

Fav. Oh mother ! [burying face on Duchess' 
shoulders). 

Adol. Let her answer if this is not so — and if she 
will not — look in her face for your answer. 

(FAVETTE/m/?te. ) 

( Tableau. ) 
[ Curtain. ) 

End of Act Third. 

64 



ACT FOURTH. 



Drawing-room in the house of the Duchess de Loire. 
Favette discovered sitting by fire in white robe; 
from time to time looking at clock on mantel-piece. 

[Enter Servant with card.) 

Fav. [taking card. ) At last ! Tell the gentleman 
to enter. 

[Exit Servant. ) 

[Enter Bernardus. ) 

Fav. O Bernardus, you have come— ■-you have 
come to me at last ! 

Ber. [going to her tenderly.) Favette, my darling 
child ! 

Fav. You received my letter of course ? Then 
you know how vilely I have been accused. I do 
not mind so much, being the child of that woman. 
She is dead — let the dead rest in peace. It is to be 
accused, so denounced. 

Ber. "You forget your father, Favette; he at least 
was honest and upright — he was a poor unlearned 



seaman it is true, but he had honor in his simple 
martyred life that no wife's sin could touch. 

Fav. Ah, it is not my parentage that I mind so 
much. I had long felt that all these honors and 
glories did not belong to me of right but only 
through the generosity of others, and I had sworn 
to myself that nothing on my part should be longer 
hidden from the Earl of Esmond ; I was about to 
tell him all I knew of myself, that I was not of noble 
blood as he and every one else were led to suppose, 
but a waif and a stray, picked up by the road-side, 
and sheltered through charity alone— but his son 
came and told his father such things as I cannot 
repeat. I was like a creature in a dream, but now 
I am awake — awake to feel my misery and my shame. 

Ber. But of course the Earl of Esmond refuses 
to believe this shameful story. He loves you still ? 

Fav. Is he like you, that misery and wickedness 
should only be titles to his pity and his pardon ? 
Oh no, when his son brought his vile accusations 
against me, I knew that I was dead to him, worse 
than dead forever. I told him the truth of you and 
of myself; I told him everything my life had known, 
I begged, I prayed, I knelt to him — not for his love, 
but only for his belief. 

Ber. And he refused to believe you ? 

Fav. He said I had deceived him and he could 
never trust me again. "Not for your birth," he 
cried to me, " not for your mother's life, would you 
be less pure, less honored in my sight, it is your 
life — your lie— that pirts us. You tell me the truth 
now — you say it may be so — but it is told too late ! " 

66 



Ber. Poor child ! 

Fav. Don't pity me — I do not mourn his love, it 
is only the shame of it all that makes me weep. 
Oh ! the difference between his love and yours — 
you who have never once reproached me — never 
once deserted me. 

[Enter Julie with card.) 

Jul. Pardon me, your ladyship, the gentleman is 
waiting in the reception room. 

Fav. [reading card .) The Earl of Esmond [rising) . 
Julie, tell the gentleman Mademoiselle de Loire is 
not at home to the Earl of Esmond. 

Jul. [going) Yes, madame. 

Ber. Favette, admit him. At least hear what 
justification he doubtless comes to offer. 

Fav. (hesitating a moment.) Julie ! 

Jul. [returning.) Yes, mademoiselle. 

Fav. You may admit the Earl of Esmond. 

Jul. Yes, mademoiselle. 

(Exit Julie.) 

Ber. I will retire, Favette. 

Fav. No, unless you remain I will not see him. 

Ber. As you please. 

(Enter Earl of Esmond. Coming down full of ex- 
pectancy, his face changes on seeing Bernardus.) 

Earl. Oh ! she is with you. 
Fav. (rising.) Sir ! 

Earl, (to Bernardus.) Tell me what you have 
beeu to her — I demand it as my right to know— are 

67 



you her father, or her lover ? Answer me — or by- 
Heaven — 

Fav. Stop ! I will tell you what he has been to 
me — I was a little lost child, nameless, homeless, 
desolate utterly— dying of hunger— save for the 
bread he gave me. He was my providence — and I 
forsook him because ambition bribed me, I repaid 
his charity by ingratitude and discontent — that is 
my only crime and it is crime enough — blame me 
if you will but give him justice — give him honor ! 

Earl. It must be pleasing indeed to the vanity of 
Monsieur Bernardus to have so fair a champion. 
Still I think a gentleman would be able to defend 
himself. 

Ber. Esmond ! 

Fav. And who has a better right to defend him 
than I who know his greatness and worth so well — 
I who owe him so much ! 

Earl. If mademoiselle had displayed this charm- 
ing candor before, would it not have been better ? 

Fav. Lord Esmond, I have now nothing more to 
say to you, All is quite at an end between us. In 
future you have no occasion even to address me. 
When you are gone I will return. Monsieur Ber- 
nardus will please excuse me {going). 

Earl, {following.) Stop ! I cannot let you go in 
this way. Do you love me, then, no longer ? 

Fav. Love you ? No. You doubted me when I 
told you the truth of him and of myself : and my 
love for you — if, indeed, it ever was love — is dead. 
Monsieur, allow me to pass. 

[Exit Favette.) 



Earl, {turning fiercely to Bernardus.) And you, 
you are the villain who has robbed me of her ! 

Ber. Esmond, for God's sake listen to reason : 
she loves me only as a child loves her father. I 
have reason enough to know that, and I shall never 
be anything else to her. She would not marry me, 
if I asked her; and Heaven knows I have no inten- 
tion of asking her. 

Eari,. You swear it ? 

Ber. I tell you most truly. 

Earl. Then swear it — swear you will never ask 
her. 

Ber. {pause. ) No — that I cannot do. 

Earl. Then, sir, you are a liar, and have tried 
to deceive me ! 

Ber For God's sake, Esmond, don't provoke me 
by insult ! 

Earl. If I insult you — you can have your satis- 
faction when and where you please, sir. Are you 
too obtuse to understand that ? 

Ber. Don't Esmond, don't ! Even you can go 
too far — you will make me forget — 

Earl. What — your caution ? 

Ber. No — but that there are reasons why I can- 
not raise my hand against you — even if I would. 

{Enter Due de Loire.) 

Earl. Then perhaps you can defend yourself. 
You are an infamous cowardly liar. {Strikes Ber- 
nardus in face with his glove.) 

Ber. {Turning and grasping him at the throat.) 
This is too much ! 

G9 



(As they are about to grapple, Due de Loike comes 
down between them and separates them.) 

Due. Stop, gentlemen ! Stop ! Unless you would 
be branded with the mark of Cain — (turning to Ber- 
nardus). Remember you are brothers ! 

Earl. Brothers ? 

Ber. De Loire, you have broken your oath ! 

Due. I could not help it. I saw you were about 
to quarrel, and I knew the time had come when I 
could hold my peace no longer. If you two fought, 
it would not be a duel, it would be murder— for Ber- 
nardus would let you shoot him down like a dog, 
rather than raise his hand against you ! 

Earl. He said as much — for God's sake what 
does it mean ? 

Ber. Not another word de Loire. I command 
you— 

Earl. He has said too much or too little to stop 
now. I demand an explanation as my right. I 
shall allow no flimsy pretext to deter me from a just 
and proper satisfaction. 

Due. He is right. I must go on. 

Ber. So be it. 

Due. You have heard, Esmond, the sad story of 
your father's first marriage — they called him the 
"Mad Earl" — and people thought his madness 
crowned, when he married the beautiful fisher girl, 
who won his passing fancy. She was a beautiful 
creature, and refused they say to be ought except 
his wife. Well, she was his mother— it was the old. 
old story, a few short months of happiness, then 
satiety, weariness, neglect, until broken-hearted 
and crushed — she died. 

70 



Bee. (aside, visibly affected.) My mother ! 

Due. After her death, your father married a lady 
of his own rank ; and when you, his second son, 
were born he took the most violent hatred to his 
elder son Victor, who inherited the title and fortune. 
He was treated with the most infamous cruelty and 
neglect — he was even accused of taking jewels. At 
last, when he was about fifteen years of age he left 
his father's house and gave up his birthright, be- 
cause he would not stay and be taunted with ironies 
against his dead mother. 

Earl. But poor Victor was drowned — his clothes 
were found by the sea-side. It was the sorrow of 
my boyhood that he died— you know that de Loire. 

Due. Yes, we all thought him dead, but he died, 
only to the world — our world ; he lived to the people 
in Bernardus ! 

Earl. But how do you know ? 

Due. One night, years ago, during an insurrec- 
tion of the people, my house in Paris was besieged, 
it was already on fire — and I alone in the house, 
with only a handful of servants, would have been 
burnt alive had it not been for Bernardus. He 
quelled the multitude, you know his influence over 
them. "You intend to enter here," he cried to 
them. " Well, it is the house of my friend; and you 
shall only do so over my dead body." And then 
the mob turned and put out the flames they had 
ignited— Bernardus helping them. It was many 
days before I could find him again. When I did 
so— I found that the beard he habitually wore, was 
burned entirely off— and I recognized in Bernardus 

71 



my old schoolmate Lord Victor Esmond — your 
brother ! 

Earl. Oh ! Victor ! my brother ! Can you ever 
forgive me ? 

Ber. [embracing.) With all my heart — but I never 
meant you to know, 

Eakl. But why — why have you been lost to me 
so long ? 

Ber. Because I loved my freedom — my mother 
you know was sea-born — and stifled under your 
pomp. 

Earl. And our father's cruelty. But why did 
you go away ? 

Ber. I was too proud to clear myself of that foul 
felonious charge — too full of scorn for those who 
could so accuse me, I remembered only that I came 
of a free race and bold blood — that I would never 
live beneath a roof where my honor had been out- 
raged — never bear the title of a father who had in- 
sulted my mother. 

Earl. And I have dared to judge you — dared to 
condemn you, as a wanderer and a Bohemian, when 
all these years I have but thieved from you ! 

Ber. Hush ! No one must know this. 

Earl. No one know it ? Are you mad ! I have 
usurped your title and fortune, do you think I will 
fail to restore them now ? 

Ber. Dignities and titles have fitted you well — 
I never could have borne them. Besides, I would 
never touch the fortune or wear the title of a father 
who so wronged and so injured me. Some one is 
coming— not one word of this I beg. 

72 



Due. But Bernardus — 

{Enter Favette.) 

Ber. Hush ! 

Earl. (Goes to Favette.) 

Fav. You here still, monsieur ? (coldly. ) 

Earl. I wish to beg your pardon, mademoiselle. 
Oh ! can you ever forgive the rash words I have 
spoken ? 

Fav. Yes, I can forgive and I shall endeavor soon 
to forget that you believed of me what your son 
told you. 

Earl. I believe in you — I trust you — I love you. 
This gentleman has fully justified you in my sight. 

Fav. You only believed when others proved my 
innocence — how different. Oh ! how different has 
been his love for me. 

Earl. You love him ? 

Fav. I do. 

Earl. You do ? 

Fav. With all my heart — with all my soul — with 
all my strength ! 

Ber. (rushing to her and catching her in his arms.) 
Favette ! my own ! my own at last ! 

Earl. And lost to me forever (to Due, bus.) 

(Exeunt Due and Esmond.) 

Ber. What am I doing ? this is folly, madness. 
Favette — do not misunderstand me. I love you as 
few men ever love women. I love you so much, that 
it is for your happiness, not my own, that I care — 
I love you too much to accept the happiness you 
now offer me. 

73 



Fav. Not accept my love ? 

Ber. No — it is gratitude, which you would call 
love on a generous impulse. You exaggerate the 
little I have done for your childhood. Pshaw ! 
What was it ? Floating a waif, one could find more 
useless ways of spending money than that. When 
you were a child, Favette, I was more than repaid 
just to hear your merry laugh— we used to laugh 
often in those happy days — did we not ? 

Fav. Ah, yes ! 

Ber. And now that your life has turned out to be 
worth having — 

Fav. But it won't be worth having — without you. 

Ber. Oh, darling, don't you see it is impossible. 
You have wealth and station — 1 am only a wanderer 
and a Bohemian — 

Fav. You love me, you say ? 

Ber. Heaven alone knows how dearly. 

Fav. Then, Bernardus, look at me. This is no 
time for false pride or mock modesty. If you will 
not share my wealth with me, let me share your 
position, whatever it may be, with you — let me 
wander with you always — let me be — your wife. 

Ber Fivette ! my darling. It will be life, happi- 
ness, heaven ! 

[Enter Duchess, sees; Favette in arms of Bernardus. ) 

Duch. Favette ! my child — what do you mean by 
this extraordinary conduct ? 

Fav. [tenderly.) Don't be angry, mamma. It 
means that I am awakened to my own heart at last. 
I wish to give up all this pomp and luxury which 



•does not belong to me of right, and return to my 
■earliest and best friend. 

Duch. Return to him ? You surely don't mean 
to marry him ? 

Fav. Yes, mamma, that is what I mean [looking 
at Bernardus), if he will have me. 

Duch. Marry Bernardus, why I never henrd of 
such a thing. 

[Enter Earl of Esmond and Due.) 

Duch. Why he's old enougli to be your father. 

Fav. Oh no, just turned forty, and younger at 
heart than many boys at twenty. Not a gray hair 
in his head, I'll warrant; see how he has lived. As 
Shelley says: " Sceptreless — free — uncircumscrib- 
ed." 

Duch. Pardon me, but to quote again, he also 
says, ' ■ Unclassed — tribeless — nationless. " 

Ber. She had you there ! 

Earl. No, that part does not apply. This gentle- 
man is my eldest brother, Victor Bertram, the true 
Earl of Esmond. 

Duch. There ! I kaew he was of noble birth ! I 
knew it by his voice and the way he snubbed 
me ! there's no deceiving me. Favette, my dear, 
this is very different from marrying a Bohemian. 

Fav. Nameless — tribe! ess — nationless. 

Due. "Exempt from awe, worship degree," 
The king — over himself " — 

Fav. And over me. 

[Curtain.) 

END. 

75 



